Mrs. Rachel Parsons looked at her understandingly. “Quite right, my dear. We will go. I will find out about this lawyer, Colonel Wilder, and he can probably tell me all we need to know. She and the old negro shall be helped—that is the least we can do.”
So, the next morning, all in the glorious sunshine that is usually the weather condition at Old Point Comfort, the party climbed into Unc’ Simmy’s old barouche and set out on the drive. Mrs. Parsons accepted the dilapidated turnout as quite a matter of course.
“Don’t fret about me, girls,” she said, when Helen said that they should have taken a different equipage.
Ruth had already begun to get the “slant” of the Southern mind. The Southerners respected themselves, and were inordinately proud of their name and blood; but they could cheerfully go without many of the conveniences of life which Northerners would consider a distinct privation. Poverty among them was no disgrace; rather, it was to be expected. They cheerfully made the best of it, and enjoyed what good things they had without allowing caviling care to corrode their pleasure.
The sunshine drenched them as they rolled over the now dusty road, as the rain had drenched the chums the day before. Yonder was the hole beside the roadway into which Miss Miggs had been half submerged, and from which she was rescued by the unfortunate Curly Smith.
Helen hilariously related this incident to Nettie and her aunt. But, warned by Ruth, she said nothing about the identity of the boy.
“I hope we shall not meet that woman again,” Ruth said, with a sigh. “She surely would make a scene, Mrs. Parsons. You don’t know how mean she can be.”
“And a school teacher?” was the reply. “Fancy!”
They arrived at the gatehouse and Ruth begged Unc’ Simmy to stop and ask if Miss Catalpa would receive them.
“Give her my card, too, boy,” said Mrs. Parsons, as the smiling old man climbed down from his seat.